Life tales of my father

“I walked five miles, uphill, both ways through waist-deep snow, just to get to school to get a good education.”

As a child, my father's tales of his childhood exploits were amazing. The conditions that he faced. The plights that he endured. And the obstacles that he overcame.

“I had a bike that had a broken rim, busted spokes, a twisted handlebar, a missing pedal and a flat tire. But I was just happy to have it!”

Wow. Now here was a child who didn't have much but was grateful for the simple things he was fortunate enough to have, I thought.

Those lessons of struggle, determination and overcoming all obstacles while giving me an insight into my dad's early life would later become the stuff of legend.

But when I became a teen I started to become skeptical of my dad's stories. It seemed that everyone of his generation I met walked exactly five miles to school, uphill BOTH ways through blizzard-like conditions.

I came to realize that whatever town he/they grew up in must have been built in a circle, with schools, stores, etc. in the middle and a five-mile hilly, snow buffer separating the outer edge where all the homes were.

And why on earth would anybody be thankful for that piece of junk bike? Just ditch it or get a better one

However, I must admit, I still enjoy those tales of a simpler, more rugged time. And I re-tell them to my daughters. Not to impress them but to share stories of a man who passed from their lives much too soon.

So, now I tell them stories from my childhood.

How I walked 100 yards in knee-deep snow to the bus stop each day and waited up to 30 minutes in subzero cold for the unheated bus to take us five miles to school.

How while I wasn't the best high school athlete, the soccer, tennis, track and diving coaches begged me to try out for their sports. (Meanwhile, I sat the bench in football and basketball.)

Or how I became the lead dancer in my high school production of “The Music Man” when the director spotted me and other members of the lighting crew offstage mocking the performers and screamed at us “come up here front and center if you think you can do better.”

But instead of being impressed, my children call me “lame” or just “sad.”

And while I could listen to my dad tell his tales countless times, my daughters complain. “You tell the same old stories using EXACTLY the same words and phrases each time. How you were driving your van over a bridge when it caught on fire and you were stupid enough to reach through the flames to grab your plane tickets and a Trivia Pursuit game, blah, blah, blah …”

OK, so my tales of strife, endurance, sacrifice and self-determination pale in comparison to my father's. There is one story, however, that even my most skeptical teen daughter proudly admits that I am superior.

“I always loved the story when you got your first motorcycle, tried to pop a wheelie, and ran it into the side of the house making a big dent in the house. And how 20 years later the dent was still there when you all moved.”

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